


Beings brighter than have been

by catalectic



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8014798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catalectic/pseuds/catalectic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irmo knew that involving himself with Finwë's wounded, precocious son was a poor idea.</p><p>But Fëanáro was so bright, and the flame was easily caught.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beings brighter than have been

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalendeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalendeer/gifts).



The marriage of Finwë was widely celebrated in Valinor, not only as a day of celebration, but as one of healing. As was his wont, Irmo remained unseen, but passed over and among the crowd. The swelling joy he found there lightened him, and the bells rang out, and he was raised up with a bright exhilaration that he had not felt in many long years.

 

But this brightness had a deeply shadowed edge in the stone-faced young man who stood beside his father. Curufinwë had long since ceased his visits to the Gardens of Lórien, and Irmo had believed that he, like his father, had begun to find some healing. Indeed, to those who looked at him on that day of union it might have appeared so, but Irmo’s sight was aimed more deeply, and the uncertain crackle of his spirit had begun to turn into a roaring blaze.

 

He did not return to Lórien that night, but swept down into Tirion to soak up the harmony of the city’s joy and to soothe what little pain he found there. Few people slept that night. The streets and parks teemed with people revelling in Telperion’s light, and it was easy to lose sense of the individual minds in the mass, and to let the wave of emotion carry him where it would.

 

It was perhaps hours later when he was snatched up out of his reverie by the nipping bite of a bitter darkness at the edge of his consciousness. At that, he could have wept. Who could have such anger in them on a night like this?

 

After a moment, of course, it became clear. He drew himself back into the semblance of a man and made a swift, silent way back up to the palace.

 

To move as he did in dreams and mist made time a strange, malleable thing, and it was only a moment or two before he was within a room cloaked in darkness. Against the far wall a four-poster bed dominated. The night was so warm that the curtains remained undrawn, and as Irmo slipped closer to the bed (for what, he thought, but perhaps it was only to soothe a dream) he could make out the form of the man lying in it.

 

Curufinwë had grown like a flame, fierce and fast, and he was now far from the child he had once been. He had a strength in his arm that spoke of long hours of labour, and his face-

 

With a start, he realised that far from the misted gaze of sleep, Curufinwë’s eyes flashed in the darkness.

 

“I am not over-fond of being watched from the shadows,” he said in a low voice, sitting up to glance around the room. His eyes came to rest on the corner where Irmo stood, and though his body was invisible, Irmo was suddenly sure that the young man could see _something_. He could not tell whether the thrill that went through him was excitement or alarm – surely this elf could not _see_ in the manner of Irmo’s kin?

 

“Will you show yourself, then?” he continued, “Or is it still your habit to skulk in the darkness?”

 

He wondered for a moment who the man thought his visitor might be. He felt a powerful urge to show himself, so he could…could…

 

Could what?

 

Before he could answer that question, Curufinwë was up and moving silently towards him. He fell back towards the window, and the elf huffed in amusement.

 

“Am I so frightening that you would flee before me?” he said, mockingly. Irmo stopped. He was right, of course. What was there to fear here? He let his illusion dissipate, and gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. The elf looked wrong-footed.

 

“Lord Irmo,” he said at last. “I…was not expecting you.”

 

Clearly not, he thought, as his eyes flicked over the unclothed body. On Curufinwë’s face, ever sharp of eye, a shade of mockery re-emerged.

 

“Curufinwë-“

 

“Fëanáro,” he snapped, then added, “My lord.” Irmo must have looked confused. “My mother-name.” They were both silent for a moment.

 

“I had noticed that you were…less joyful than others during the ceremonies,” Irmo said, with the flicker of a smile, “The celebrations were…not to your taste, it seemed. I wished to ensure that your dreams were more pleasant.”

 

The elf said nothing, but gave a small smile of his own. Irmo was emboldened to continue.

 

“I was not the visitor you expected.” Immediately the smile fell from his face, and he turned sharp eyes on the Vala. He barely kept himself from falling back once more from the weight of that gaze.

 

“I did not _expect_ ,” he said fiercely, “but I was not surprised to receive a visitor this night, although-“ And here Fëanáro gave a look of his own, measuring. “-not perhaps someone of your…stature.”

 

Irmo wondered what lurked behind that final word. Again they were silent, and there seemed now to be a tension that had been missing before.

 

“Can I offer you refreshments?” Fëanáro asked gesturing to a pair of high-backed chairs beside the window, as though he were not naked, and Irmo were not a Vala at all.

 

He snorted, and was mortified. He looked up to catch the elf’s eye. The corners of his lips twitched only a little. As one, they burst into laughter, and the uneasy tension relaxed.

 

“Do you often entertain thus?” Irmo asked with a grin. Fëanáro took on a considering expression.

 

“Rarely,” he said, “but it is not unknown.” He smirked then, and rocked back on his heels.

 

Irmo was speechless for a moment. He fought to keep his eyes on the sharp-lined face, and away from the roll of muscle that the movement caused. He swallowed.

 

“Nonetheless, perhaps a robe would be wise?” But he had not intended to sound so uncertain.

 

“I am not cold. Do you wish for me to cover up, my Lord?” That almost-mocking tone was back, and he found himself becoming defensive.

 

“I was led to believe that the elves viewed these things as…that is, there are certain dreams…thoughts…on which I do not intrude, and I-” He saw the elf’s lips twitch up again, and he stepped back, unaccountably embarrassed by his behaviour in the face of what was, after all, only a young man amusing himself.

 

“And as you are not in need of my service, I will not now do so further,” he said.

 

“Not _intrude_ , as you say? I would not mind,” Fëanáro said with a lazy grin. “Do you wish to?”

 

He knew, he _knew_ that it had been in jest, but his face had given him away, accustomed as he was to going unseen. Fëanáro’s head tilted to one side only slightly, and the bowstring of tension between them returned. He was caught by the dark eyes, unmoving.

 

“Do you wish to, my Lord?” he asked, taking one measured step forward. “I did not think it was your way.”

 

“What do you know of our ways?” he muttered, but held his ground.

 

“None of you has a child,” Fëanáro said, “so one assumes that marriage, whatever it is for you, does not mean the same as for elves.” Another step forward, and the elf raised his hand to touch.

 

“It is not-” he was distracted by the warmth of the hand that came to rest on his upper arm, and by those _eyes_ that would not release him. “We are not tied to our bodies as are your people. We do not spend time on…pursuits of the flesh.” The smile on the elf’s face grew, and he closed the last space between them.

 

“Perhaps,” Fëanáro said in measured tones, “there is yet a lesson to be shared.” And he put a hand to Irmo’s face, and kissed him.

 

He had heard desire described before, but never like this. This was a howling gale that deafened him and left him dizzy. The heat of Fëanáro’s hands and the press of his chest spread through his whole being, prickling at his skin. Their lips moved together and he was breathless.

 

They wore bodies in the image of the elves, but for the sake of ease, not for…this. He had not even thought of it.

 

But this, here, with Fëanáro bare before him...he had never felt this body so alien to him, so out of his control. Fëanáro shifted against him, sighed, and Irmo pressed forward again to feel the pull and shift of skin against heated skin.

 

The elf glanced down, and Irmo realised that his form had changed almost without his intent – that now they were both unclothed. Fëanáro met his eyes once more with a grin and drew him back towards the bed. In the silver light, the sheets were black. They sank into them as into the sea.

 

Fëanáro’s hands dragged hot up his back, and his fists clenched in the sheets. He leaned down again for a kiss, now biting at the lips as the elf had.

 

“Mm,” Fëanáro murmured, “are _all_ your kin such quick studies?”

 

Irmo smiled, and leaned down to mouth and nip at his jaw. He felt the indrawn breath beneath him, the press upwards. The hot line of the elf’s erection pressed against his stomach, and he felt suddenly reckless. He pushed himself up on one elbow and dragged his other hand down the shuddering chest, then lower, and caught the elf’s cock in his hand.

 

He might not have experienced this for himself, but he knew enough of the dreams of elves to know at least in part what to do. He began to work his hand up and down the slick, hot shaft, and Fëanáro writhed under him. His own body reacted in return, and he pressed his swelling cock against the elf’s thigh.

 

“Ah!” Fëanáro cried out and surged upwards. He caught his hand round the nape of Irmo’s neck and dragged him down to kiss him again. Irmo felt the elf’s other hand slip hot down his belly.

 

At the first touch of that hand he was almost undone. The press of hand against flesh seemed to go deeper, straight to his core. He pressed his forehead to Fëanáro’s collarbone, gasping for breath, and moved his hand faster. Pressure built in him. He barely held himself up on shaking thighs and the elf’s strong hand worked him. They rocked and trembled together.

 

“ _Irmo_ ,” Fëanáro groaned, and it went as deep as his caress.

 

“ _Fëanáro_ ,” he growled in return, leaning down to bite at the elf’s neck. Fingers scratched at his scalp. It was almost too much but so good and he was so, so close-

 

And then in a sudden rush Fëanáro was _there_ in his mind, a shock of fire in the mist, and he was-

 

He came all at once, on the sheets and between the elf’s thighs.

 

The presence in his mind withdrew. He pulled back and stood once more. Fëanáro stayed, cast lazily among the sheets, panting. He had spent too, Irmo realised, and he had not even noticed.

 

“Where-” he said, breathless, and tried again after a pause. “How did you do that?”

 

“Hn?” The elf’s eyes rolled open. They were different now, subdued. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Fëanáro.” His tone was harsher than he had intended, and Fëanáro tensed defensively, drawing himself up to rest on his hands.

 

“I only-” Shoulders up, he shook his head a little, and seemed to come back to himself. “You spend much of your time doing the same to others, do you not?”

 

Like a high bell ringing at the edge of his mind, something that had been fighting for his attention finally caught it.

 

“You asked after _all_ of my kin,” he said, and then with sudden clarity, “You learned that from one of us, did you not?”

 

Fëanáro looked uncertain for a moment, and then only frowned silently. Irmo wanted to press, to ask who of the Valar would show him such an intimacy, but he realised with a creeping unease that he already knew.

 

 _Skulking in the darkness indeed_ , he thought.

 

“This was unwise of me,” he said, drawing back. His clothes whispered and fell back about his body as he stood. With the work of a moment, it was as though he had not made that choice after all, had not taken that step.

 

Fëanáro lay naked and unashamed, marked by their climax, but with jaw clenched and eyes dark. Irmo wished intently that there was something he could say – but no. He of all his kin knew the minds of elves, and this elf would not respond to any comfort from him.

 

“I will leave you to your bed,” he said. And-

 

“…I am sorry,” he offered, more quietly. Fëanáro huffed and stood abruptly from the tangle of bedclothes to straighten them.

 

“No harm done,” he said dismissively. “Far from it.” He cast a crooked smile over his shoulder as he slipped across the room to another door – a washroom, Irmo realised, and was suddenly aware of the marks on his own skin.

 

To turn away was more difficult than he had expected. Feeling suddenly heavy, he finally cast aside his physical form to pass home to the enclosing mists of Lórien, and wished that his unease was so simply put aside.


End file.
